


Inner Workings

by ghostnebula



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 05:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8565205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula
Summary: A radstorm, a decrepit old diner, and a panic attack.





	

The radstorm blew in quicker than a Stingwing swarm. Wright barely manages to twist the top off a bottle of Rad-X, his hands slipping in the sudden dark, before the first bolt of lightning strikes the ground and sends his Geiger counter squealing. A gust of wind blows Nick Valentine’s hat off his head and he snatches it out of the air before it goes flying into the river.

“There!” Nick shouts over the sudden squall, pointing at a diner up ahead. Its sign is a dark silhouette against the sickly green sky and the two men move toward it like it’s a homing beacon, guiding them through the storm.

Wright reaches the diner first, slamming his shoulder against the metal door so that it bursts open. It’s a struggle to shut it again - the centuries-old metal has bent and twisted over time so that it doesn’t want to close properly - but they manage to push it back into place as best they can. Wright slumps down to the ground, breathing heavily and checking the radiation levels on his Pip-Boy, while the storm rages outside and rattles the glass windows in their panes.

Nick tuts to himself in disapproval as he surveys the diner. It’s been picked clean - nothing but junk and rubble littering the floor - but it’s still fairly stable. He’s had to take shelter in worse places in the past. At least this diner had doors.

“Well, any port in a storm, right?” he asks, turning to face Wright. “Quite literally.”

Wright chuckles softly, still sitting with his back against the door. Nick walks over and holds out his hand to help the fellow to his feet, but Wright doesn’t take it.

“Y’alright there?” Nick asks.

“Yeah, I just...” Wright trails off, gesturing vaguely, and stares at the floor like it’s a puzzle he’s trying to figure out.

Nick retracts his hand, feeling foolish. Wright was the real puzzler here. The guy was lost in his own thoughts so much he had a permanent furrow in his brow from frowning. Prone to long bouts of silence, too. More than once he’d been so quiet, Nick had forgotten he was even there. It was understandable, considering what he’d been through but it made him an odd companion. He could talk a lot about the superficial things, but the second Nick asks him anything personal he seals up tighter than the Vault he crawled out of and that’s it for the rest of the night. Nick couldn’t tell you Wright’s first name or where he grew up or if he had any family, not even if you paid him a thousand caps.

Wright cleared his throat, finally looking up from the faded lino. “Any idea when the storm’s gonna let up?”

“Not anytime soon, that’s for sure.” Nick rests his elbows against a countertop, looking out the window at the swirling mass of dark clouds that hung above the Commonwealth like a blanket.

“Shit.” Wright sighs. “I hate radstorms.”

“Mm.” Nick pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, lights it, and puts it to his lips. “Nice weather for ghouls, but not so much the rest of us.”

Wright pushes himself up off the ground and gets to his feet. He swivels around, taking in the sight of their sparsely stocked shelter before joining Nick by the counter.

“So,” he says, drumming his fingers against the plastic countertop, “we’ve got nothing to do but wait.”

“Seems that way.” Nick taps the ashes of his cigarette into a chipped mug. “There’s a checkerboard on that table in the corner. Could play a game or two.” His mouth twitches in a smile. “I know how much you love checkers.”

“God, no.” Wright snorts. “I’d rather run right back out into the damn storm.”

 

* * * * *

 

“And that’s game,” Nick says as he skips his bottlecap-slash-checker across the board, capturing Wright’s last pieces.

“Great.” Wright slumps back in the diner chair, vinyl squeaking under his weight.

Nick twirls the winning bottlecap between his fingers, the _click-click-click_ of metal against metal barely audible above the still-howling storm. Wright had played the first two games with gusto - he even seemed willing to learn the rules properly this time - but then he shut down, got real quiet. Nick just couldn’t place it. Normally, he’d figure the sullen attitude for being a sore loser but that wasn’t Wright’s style. No, something else is up.

“Sorry,” says Wright, breaking the awkward silence. “I think I’m getting a headache, is all.”

“Look, why don’t you get some rest,” Nick says, as he brushes the caps together into a small pile. He keeps his gaze on Wright, watching as he rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I’ll keep watch, wake you when the storm ends.”

“Yeah, that sounds...” Wright trails off, then catches himself. “Yeah. Good idea.”

He moves almost like a ghoul as he shuffles over to a space behind the counter that’s protected from the worst of the draft, nudging debris out of the way with his foot so he can spread out his bedroll. With a cursory nod to Nick, he lays down behind the counter, everything hidden from view but his feet.

Nick turns his attention back to the rain-warped checkerboard and sets up the pieces again. He’s got to do _something_ to kill time til the storm passes after all, and he’s always enjoyed checkers. Although when he plays against himself, he keeps managing to end in a tie.

He’s so focused on his game that almost doesn’t hear it at first. A scuffling noise that sounds almost like the loose paper being blown around on the floor. But then it happens again, louder. Soft scuffling, then a sigh. Nick sits up, looking over at the counter. One of Wright’s feet is twitching, his boot scraping against the lino floor. Then, muttering. Unintelligible but still audible. Moaning and muttering and then - a sharp gasp and a loud “no”.

Nick strides over to the counter, peering down at Wright on the floor. He’s fast asleep but he’s moving, eyebrows knotted in fear, breath hitching in his chest. “No”s and half-murmured pleas fall from his lips as he writhes around on the ground. Nick sighs; it’s another nightmare. They were unfortunately common for Wright. Nick doubts the guy’s had a full night’s sleep since he came out of cold storage.

He clears his throat and crouches down, gripping Wright’s shoulder and giving it a gentle shake. “Psst. Wright.” He shakes a little harder when his first move fails to rouse him. “C’mon, buddy.”

Wright’s eyes snap open and he glances around, struggling to get his bearings as he sits up. His chest is heaving, taking long ragged gasps as if he was underwater and just came up for air. He looks at Nick, eyes wide, panicked, searching.

“Oh God.” Wright’s voice comes out thin and shaky. “Sorry, I--”

“No need to apologise, it happens.” Nick pats him gently on his shaking shoulder. He keeps his hand there while his eyes scan the shelves, looking for something that might help. Water, whiskey, snack cakes - whatever would take the edge off. “Need anything?”

“I-I don’t know.” Wright’s gripping the sheet of his bedroll so tight his knuckles are turning white, and his chest is still rising and falling in shallow bursts. He glances around the diner as if to make sure he’s back in reality, and Nick gives his shoulder a firm squeeze when he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Outside, the radstorm rages on. The windows rattle in their panes, serving little defence against the cold outside. Some of them are broken, letting in a draft that blows detritus around the floor and sends the bare light bulb swinging like a pendulum.

Wright drags his hands down his face and for a moment, he looks like he’s aged ten years in a single evening. He wasn’t exactly a young man - Nick guessed he was towards the upper end of middle-aged - but in the low light cast by the bare bulb above, he looks so much older, like he’s lived a hundred lifetimes.

“I-I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” Wright says, his voice low, “because it was so dark, I couldn’t tell for sure but then I realised I... I’ve been here before. Recently. I mean, not _recently_ b-but...”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep shaky breath, tries to steady himself, and Nick can see his mouth moving silently as he tries to figure out what to say next. Nick himself doesn’t move. He’s been travelling with Wright for weeks and he’s never opened up this much, which is saying something. His normal M.O. post-nightmare was to go right back to sleep as if he hadn’t just woken up screaming.

“I-I keep...” Wright swallows and starts again. “I keep going to places I’ve been before and I remember them... how they used to be, that is. And I know what the state of things is like now, I know, but I keep expecting to find places like I left them, not like... _this_.” He gestures at the decrepit diner around them.

Nick nods. He knows. He gets flashes of memories sometimes, of intact buildings and offices and parks that haven’t gone to seed. Memories of a cozy apartment down the road from a corner store, neither of which are still standing. He’ll walk through an abandoned bank and suddenly see it in perfect clarity, all bustling and shiny and new. It was hard, at first, to reconcile those memories with his reality.

Wright pulls at a loose thread on his blanket. “M-my sister worked near the downs,” he said, so softly it was almost as if he didn’t want Nick to hear. “And sometimes I’d meet her and we’d come here for lunch.”

He raises his hand slowly and points over at a booth by the window, one with stuffing spilling out of its cracked vinyl seats. “That was our table. I was _just here_ , a few weeks--” His breath hitches and he swallows. “A few _centuries_ ago.”

Nick gives Wright’s shoulder a soft squeeze. He feels like he should say something, fill the silence, but nothing appropriate comes to mind. It’s hard, so hard, knowing that everything you once knew was gone.

“I’m real sorry, Wright,” he mutters, “I don’t know what else to say.”

He was never really good at dealing with heavy displays of emotion. Some folks wanted to be held, wanted a literal shoulder to cry on, and some folks wanted you to leave them alone so they could pretend like it never happened afterward. He always had Wright pegged as the latter type, especially considering his track record of keeping things bottled up. That was the problem with bottles, though - keep cramming stuff inside and they’re liable to break.

“It just... it doesn’t feel real,” Wright says, and he lets out a high-pitched nervous chuckle. “ _None_ of this is real! I was just here a few weeks ago, how can this possibly be a hundred years old?  I was _just here_!!  I-I keep... I’m just... I’m just _waiting_ , you know? F-for everything to go back to normal. All of a sudden the universe is gonna say ‘alright, that’s enough’ and this is all gonna _stop_ and I’m gonna wake up in my _normal bed_ in my _normal house_ and-- and-- I just--

“I _hate_ this!!” His voice cracks. “I just want to go _home_!”

He cuts himself off, covering his mouth with his fingers like a child who just said something he shouldn’t have. Tears well up in his eyes and he scrunches them shut, shaking his head.

“Hey, here,” Nick says, and he takes Wright’s hands in his own. His breathing is quick and erratic, panicked huffs as he struggles to calm down. Nick holds his hands gently, tries to remember what - if anything - he knows about getting someone through a panic attack.

“S’alright, just breathe,” he says, and even though he doesn’t need to he inhales and exhales slowly, over and over, until Wright matches his rhythm. Deep in, deep out.

“You’re safe,” Nick says, “I gotcha.”

Wright nods, squeezes Nick’s hands tight, and keeps breathing. He closes his eyes and starts mouthing something silently to himself. Nick’s lip-reading skills aren’t the most accurate but it looks like he’s counting down from ten, inhaling and exhaling when he reaches zero.

They stay like that for a few minutes until Wright opens his eyes, still watery, and takes his shaky hands out of Nick’s grasp.

“Sorry,” he says. “I... I didn’t mean to... go to pieces.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Nick says, and reaches in his coat pocket for a handkerchief that Wright accepts gratefully. “After all you’ve been through, I’m just surprised you haven’t had a good cry over it sooner. But, seriously though, it’s fine.”

Wright nods, but then his face crumples again and tries in vain to wipe away the tears that run down his cheeks. He drags his knees up to his chest and buries his face in them, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Nick doesn’t know what to do but he wants to do _some_ thing to console the fella, so he reaches out his hand and hovers over Wright’s back for a second before gently patting it. When Wright doesn’t flinch away from his touch, Nick tries it again; soft pats that get softer until he’s just rubbing small circles along the hunch of his spine. After a while, the sobs turn into sniffles and eventually Wright lifts his head up, wiping his eyes with the collar of his shirt.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick and hoarse, and Nick smiles to himself as he slowly gets to his feet.

“Anytime,” he says, dusting off his coat. “I should probably leave you to get some rest...”

If Nick blinked, he would have missed it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wright’s hand reaching out for the hem of his coat as he stepped out just of reach. Wright pulls back as though he just touched something hot, curling his hands into fists and staring down at the ground.

Nick stares down at Wright who just can’t meet his gaze. “Do you--” he starts, then clears his throat, “would you like me to stay here?”

“No!” Wright shakes his head quickly, having spit out the response so fast he almost cut off the end of Nick’s question. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.”

He pulls his knees closer to his chest, and Nick sighs softly through his nose. “Will you tell me to leave if I stay of my own volition?”

Wright pauses, nibbling on his bottom lip. “No.”

“Then I’m staying.”

Wright’s relief is evident. As soon as Nick sits down next to him, he unfurls like a flower, stretching out his legs and rolling his hunched shoulders. He pulls at his shirt, and Nick can see his hands are still shaking. His arms are dotted with goosebumps and it’s hard to tell if that’s just because of the the wind whistling through the cracks in the windows.

“Here. Probably need this more than I do,” Nick says, and he shrugs out of his coat. It’s hard to maneuver in the small space behind the counter and he has to lift his arms up high to avoid elbowing Wright in the face, but he manages to get it off and Wright accepts it with gratitude. His arms are too long for the sleeves but he tries to tug them down as best he can.

“Thanks,” he says, then blinks. “It’s warm.”

“Surprised?” Nick chuckles. “You expect all synths to be cold and robotic? Kinda stereotypical, don’t you think?”

“N-no, I didn’t mean...” Wright trails off, ducking his head. “I’ve just... I’ve met synths before. Gen IIs. And they’ve all been... y’know.”

“I figure it’s one of the perks of being a prototype,” Nick says as he leans back against the cabinet, trying to find a comfortable spot on the cold hard floor. “Got all kinds of extra features that Gen IIs miss out on.”

“Oh. M-makes sense.”

Wright scoots backward until his back’s against the cabinet as well. Nick moves his arm up, tries to make some more space in the cramped corner, but Wright takes that as an invitation and slides over next to Nick, tucking in next to him so that his shoulder’s right up against Nick’s chest.

Nick freezes, waits for Wright to realise his mistake and move, but he doesn’t. He just wraps the coat around himself tighter and relaxes into Nick’s chest. If Nick had the capacity to blush, he would, but instead he glances away and hopes Wright can’t hear the onboard fan in his chest click into high gear.

There’s a few warning drops of rain outside before the sky opens and the rain starts coming down in sheets. It pelts against the windows and Nick can hear water dripping somewhere through the holes in the ceiling. Nowhere near them, thankfully; they’re cold but dry.

Wright sighs and slides down Nick’s chest a little further, and Nick raises his eyebrows. “You tired?”

“Exhausted.” Wright chuckles. “But I can’t--... I don’t think I could sleep if i tried. Every time I close my eyes, I just...” He trails off, shaking his head.

“Look, what you’ve gone through is... unique,” Nick says. He’s speaking slowly, trying to pick his words carefully. “I can’t even pretend to know what you’ve been through, but as someone who’s also had a singular experience... I don’t wanna say it gets easier, but you get better at handling it. Even if you don’t feel like you are.”

Wright ducks his head so that Nick can’t quite see his face. “You think so?”

“Mm. Been through it myself. It won’t always be like... this.”

Nick’s arm is still hovering awkwardly above Wright but he lowers it, inch by inch, until he can rest it around his shoulders properly. He waits for Wright to move, to shrug his arm off, but when he doesn’t, Nick pulls him a little closer.

“Thanks,” says Wright, and he leans into Nick’s touch. “I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime.”

Wright leans into Nick’s chest until his ear’s resting against his shirt pocket. He’s quiet and still, and Nick starts to think he’s fallen asleep.

“Hey,” Nick mutters, “you still up?”

“Hm? Yeah. Just listening.”

“To what?”

Wright shifts, getting comfortable. “To you.”

“O-oh.” Nick’s suddenly acutely aware of everything currently going on in his chest cavity. Fans whirring, soft clicks and buzzes as his processors work, the rush and hiss of coolant and the thrum of the pump as it pushes it through his system. He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” Wright says, and he lowers his voice a little, sounding bashful. “I like it. It’s nice. Soothing.”

Now it’s Nick’s turn to be embarrassed. He ducks his head, pulls the brim of his hat down a fraction, and his onboard fan kicks up another gear.  

“Did I ever tell you I used to work with computers?” Wright asks, and Nick can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s true! The sound of an onboard motor reminds me of home.”

Nick chuckles, trying not to jostle Wright too much. “ _Shush_.”  
  
Wright shifts his position, moves his hand on top of Nick’s. It’s still shaky so Nick threads his fingers through Wright’s to try and steady it. They stay like that for a while, Wright’s head pressed heavy and warm against Nick’s chest, listening to the soft soothing sounds of his inner workings, and neither of them even notice when the storm finally clears.

**Author's Note:**

> repostin some old old stuff from deep in the drafts \m/


End file.
